Azrael's Stop

Dreamscape

Byrday, 3 Drannym, 1007 KR

That night, Ceph closed the bar early, kicked the patrons out, poured himself a drink. The crow watched him, head cocked, as he made his way to his bed.

The sheets needed cleaning; they were browning from sweat. He hadn't been sleeping well.

The crow could feel it. Could hear the uncanny sounds of a low, soft voice, speaking indistinguishable words that are at once calming and terrifying. The sounds were far away, indistinct, as if they didn't quite belong.

The Dreaming came as Ceph dozed off. The crow saw it. Saw the creature appear, straddling Ceph as he tossed and turned, a hideous hag, a woman with a drawn and gaunt face, rotted teeth, wild hair, wilder eyes.

A nocnista. A bringer of nightmare. She held Ceph down with clawed hands, feeding off his fear.

The Dreamscape wasn't a kind place to him.

~

A large doorway in the darkness. A sign declaring it Larilla's School of Reclamation.

A classroom.

Teenage students sit in rows of old desks. A teacher, a youthful man of about thirty, stands at the front of the class by a slate board and a desk. Windows look out onto the streets of Theore City.

“Can anyone tell me about the Twelve Day War?” the teacher asks.

No one in the class responds.

“Anyone? Anything at all?”

“'Twas the bloody elves did it, weren't it?” one boy shouts out.

“Can you be more specific, Morrit?”

“Whotcha mean?””

“Which elves?”

“The bad 'uns, Master Carver.”

The teacher snorts. “The elves of Enlanuin, the kingdom to the north. But not all of them—a general called Tholandar Ilterquess acted without orders. Does anyone know why?”

Silence.

“Anyone? Ceph?”

In the back row where Master Carver is looking, Ceph slouches in his seat, staring at the floor. He is pale, unhealthy.

“Ceph?”

But he ignores the teacher.

~

A dorm room. Ceph sits on one of two beds, staring out a window. A few items of clothing and a book are strewn about one half of the room—the other half lies empty.

An empty bottle that reeks of alcohol lies on the floor.

The door opens. “Ceph?” says a woman. She's older, with steely hair wrapped in a tight bun. A film of hair sits conspicuously on her upper lip.

Ceph doesn't respond.

“Master Farns, I am addressing you.”

Ceph looks at her. “Matron,” he says.

“We've accepted a new pupil. He is moving into this room with you.” She steps aside to let a boy enter the room.

He's about Ceph's age, maybe fourteen. Short, thin, and shy, he holds one arm with the other in front of his body. He's looking at the floor, then glances up at Ceph—and his eyes are caught there.